Thoughts
by SillyGoy
Summary: Just a few thoughts from a tired person. One-shot. Was an experiment. Personally think I could have done better.


I cannot seem to pry my eyes away from the sky, that vast expanse of bright blue becoming brighter and brighter as the sluggish seconds tick by. In the shadow of a leafless tree, I lay on my back and relax. I manage to fight off sleepiness and just keep staring above, my head lolled back against the root of this tree.

The white clouds overhead - thin and fat; some feathery and some obese - they drift lazily against that bright, blue sky. I see them through the gaps of the skeleton branches of a grim charcoal black, and I put my hands together to my stomach to make myself more comfortable, however possible that is, as I don't think I've ever felt this calm, this content, since I was just a child. I've finally found respite. A much-deserved rest, in my opinion.

My muscles loosen and I let myself breathe slower. My eyelids threaten to drop, but with effort, I pry them up again. Not yet, I decide. I'm not sleeping yet. I wouldn't want to miss this wonderful afternoon in the embrace of slumber; it's so peaceful, and so quiet, as my ears are rather deafened. Though I am on the crest of a lonesome hill, I elect not to look around and admire the beautiful countryside. That would take too much effort. The sky is enough. Enough for me.

There are stark grooves on the portion of trunk hanging above my brow. Must have been carved out by a young couple declaring their affections for each other. I can't really see the carving clearly, owing to its angled position, and even as I regard it, my eyes are already rolled to their limits, as far as they can go. The sustained effort strains me, so I go back to watching the sky.

The barren branches rattle as a breeze flows through. Unthinkingly, I grit my teeth, move my mouth, try to open my lips. They're quite numb.

I am suddenly conscious of my breathing. I note the swelling and contraction of my chest, and how the air passes in and out of my nostrils. In my idleness and numbness, this is all I can do. I am incapable now. Whatever responsibilities I've shouldered before this, I've forgotten all about. As I cannot continue to act upon the oaths I've taken, I am free. Finished. This liberation that I feel, mixes with anxiety.

I swallow the blood and spit that's pooled behind my drying lips which I then lick wet. The iron tang from the red that had seeped from deep within me clings to my gums and tongue. It is a strange and alien taste when partaken of in great amounts, and is very unwelcome: it reminds me of my own mortality and uncomfortably so, even if I've already accepted death.

Death. I am going to die, today, upon this hill, in the shadow of a leafless tree. And I am fine with that. Though I am uneasy with the finality of it all.

The sky's so bright now. My vision, in reflex, creeps away further from where the sun shines as I gag at the blood that's seeped into the back of my throat. A dark puddle pools beneath my back. Every inhalation and exhalation now gurgles as the liquid bubbles with air. I feel a faint pain concentrated in my torso. I wonder if I could have done anything to prevent this.

But of course not. My luck had simply run out. I've been wearing the uniform for five years; it had to happen sometime, right?

Wounded like this, my strength saps from me. My heavy eyelids drag themselves down, and darkness crawls inward from the outskirts of my vision. But then, I see them: little black dots in the sky in a flawless formation shaped like an arrowhead. Witches.

They've finally come, albeit a bit too late. I would wave at them, shout that there's a survivor, that perhaps they could come pick me up, but I am too weak now to move my arms and legs, and my throat has degraded in that it can only manage gurgles now. And apparently I am too weak to hold my convictions, too. I have not accepted death after all, contrary to what I've convinced myself. I am afraid of it, in fact. Hope dangles above me in the form of those majestic angels of death in the sky, but far out of my reach. It's mocking me. Fate itself, seems to be laughing at my plight.

I don't want to die. Not like this. I know I am going to, but I can't help but reject it till the end. If I perish today, then I will do so without closure and in ignominity and uncertainty. How many of my friends have managed to escape the slaughter for the time being? Where are they going? Do they know I'm here? Who is in command now that Colonel Amsel is dead? Where - where is my rifle?! I'm not dead yet; the Witches are a sign from God Himself. I can do this. I can do this!

I try to lift my hands so I can move them to the sides and I could stand up, but they seem to freeze and hover still at a few inches. Defiant, I try to curl my fingers to claw at the air, but they merely twitch. I struggle with my back and wounded stomach as I try to wrest myself from this impromptu pillow of bark and sit up, but I only succeed in lolling my head about forwards, nauseating me. I also think my helmet fell off.

I try again to move substantially, but I am met with a sudden jolt of pain. Like lightning, it bolts from my groin right up to where I think my diaphragm is at. I'm so numb, and yet it hurts so much. I grimace; my lower lip quivers. I let out a stifled scream and let my head loll backwards against the tree root, thumping my cranium. It's quite hard, the impact; it echoes across my skull. I feel a faint, blunt glimmer of pain.

I realize I can't do this.

And so I fix my eyes to the only comforting thing I can concentrate on: the sky, let fighting be damned. I think for a moment, and, you know - I don't believe that the Witches are worth my time anymore. They're a bother, celebrities whom the boys would gossip and long for. Not in any way am I saying I'm guiltless; I remember vaguely, I believe it was three days ago, that I stole a magazine whose cover depicted Captain Yeager from the 501st JFW, from a young and fresh-faced corporal. Or was it Sakamoto? I can't seem to recall.

Or did I steal the magazine from Sakamoto? No, that seems unlikely…

The colors are beginning to fade, gradually into grayscale. The bright, blue sky is transforming into a pale sheet of winter snow. The black, barren branches casting their shadows at me become even more stark in contrast to everything. It's like everything is turning into some kind of alien world. I'd love to sit up and look at the countryside around me, watching hues of grey wash over everything.

But the skies are better silver than blue, in my opinion, now that I've seen it. They promise me Heaven. I like it.

It's quite hypnotizing, this. The voice in my head - my voice, that is; my thoughts - is hushed for a while. Little whispers only, tugging at the very recesses of my mind.

No, I'm not going to die, I think. Just rest for a little while. The pain's gone. I should be ready tomorrow. Javik's birthday is tomorrow. I should give him my last pack of smokes. Sunday is tomorrow. Should I go to church?

Yeah. That's what I'll do tomorrow, I think. Give him some smokes. I'll apologize to the priest next Sunday.

I blink. It lasts for five seconds, but I open my eyes again. The clouds have moved. I think the sky is darker now. How peculiar. I blink again, and I think whatever's right of me has descended into the nighttime, while the left side is still at daytime. Half of my sight is darkness. Am I at the center of the world? It must be… noon where I'm at. That's center. But it's split, so it doesn't make any sense. That's not - that's not how it works.

It's all grey now, what's left of the dayside. It's kind of hard to distinguish individual objects. I think the fingers above are the branches. They look strange when lit up like this. I wonder if they're electric.

The subject is too ponderous. I'm not so clever. I hate thinking of things like this. Too complicated, you know?

…

That cloud - looks like a dog. My dog. Burly. It's him, isn't it?

...

I think…

… I think I'm rather tired.

I think, I'll be going to bed, but later.

I blink again, and breathe deeply. It's kind of hard. You always breathe heavier when you're this sleepy, don't you? But I must be really sleepy then, because I can't seem to open my eyes. I'll go to sleep right now, then. That's fine. I'm sure Colonel Amsel won't mind. We have tanks from the 312th. New Panzer IV's. III's? No, II's.

I also need to return Franz his lighter…

…


End file.
